"It is good to see you too, milyy dyadya." Sweet uncle. She accepts his embrace, her arms lifting to return it in kind before brushing a chaste, feather-light kiss upon each of her uncle's cheeks in turn. It is an admittedly old-fashioned gesture but, quite unapologetically, Anastasia found herself partial to these seemingly insignificant traditions, smitten with the remnants of the old ways. It is a hallmark of all immortals, she is sure, to yearn in some fashion for the customs of their respective times.

At his comment, though, the Russian woman's sage eyes narrow a fraction, fixing him with a gaze positively brimming with skepticism and yet it is no less affectionate in its relative suppleness. "Or, perhaps this is a thing nieces do when they adore their uncles and they have missed them terribly. Da?" Despite the tenacity of her reply there existed at least a modicum of truth in both statements, Anastasia having made this journey in the hopes of gleaning a measure of comfort from the flamboyant presence and effortlessly lighthearted mannerisms of her dearest uncle. In her current state of wariness she required this simplicity of interaction that was her relationship with Matteo in order to ease the anticipatory stress of seeing her father after such a sudden and prolonged absence. It was a rare thing, this admission of need (even solely to herself), as the Duchess' personality has always aligned more so with the austerity of Alexander than the fae standing before her.

And so, here she stood.

Taking her uncle's offered arm does the Hunter traipse through the not-understated grandeur of the foyer, though hardly does she make note of the lavish furnishings or miscellaneous subsequent displays of century-old wealth. Raised amidst the riches of Russia's grandest and most exquisite palaces, the auburn-haired woman had long ago become accustomed to such surroundings and so she offers naught but a passing glance in any particular direction.

The Russian Duchess perches herself just so at the island, allowing her stunning heels to fall to the floor with a soft clatter as she tucks one slender leg beneath the other- a thing she would have scarcely done outside of the present company. "Vasha Milost." Your Grace. The greeting captures her attention, a single expertly-manicured brow pitching in curiosity, for she had not been the subject of such formalities in over a century, before the weight of her emerald gaze falls upon her the individual who addresses her. "Gregory," she offers in a soft purr, allowing the elder man to raise her hand and brush his lips against the bony peaks of her knuckles once he saunters across the room. "Anya, you look a vision. As always." A smile spreads readily and unabashed across the planes of her features, a hint of warmth blossoming to life within her at the use of the moniker her father had once used with such affection. "And you have not aged a single day." The older gentleman offers a nod of his head before pitching it offhandedly towards Matteo. "Please, for all of our sake, keep him occupied."

A sly, inquisitive simper casts its shade against the pallor of her features as her gaze shifts to the shuffling form of her uncle, Gregory taking his leave of the pair as swiftly as he had arrived. She does not ask after the manservant's meaning, however, as a glass of the richest red wine is passed to her along with what may have proven to be a profoundly weighty query on behalf of the elder fae. Anastasia swirls the crimson liquid about within its vessel, allowing the aroma to waft against her olfactory before she indulges in a practiced sip. Matteo had always been able to discern the very finest wines on offer, a rare and precious affinity in this "modern" age of sugary and bitter swill.

Only in the wake of a heavily pregnant silence does she venture to answer the inquiry posed to her, the sage of her eyes falling upon her uncle as he busies himself with meal preparations. "War, Matteo, I have seen the rigors of war these past few years. And as for what I have been doing- nothing more or less scandalous than dismantling the Russian government, one corrupt, bureaucratic brick at a time." An impish and yet no less exquisite simper unfurls its petals upon her features as she raises the wineglass to her lips once more. "I do believe I am owed a secret, oui?"

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia